


Antirrhinum

by ficthepainaway



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: (but that's the whole point), (it's a templar!henry au), Alternate Universe, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Assassin's Creed: Underworld, F/M, Out of Character, Spoilers, also this was meant to be pwp but now it's a bunch of plot with a side of porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 18:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7234630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficthepainaway/pseuds/ficthepainaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evie gets help in her search for the Piece of Eden from an unlikely source: a Templar—a turncoat—who goes by the name Henry Green.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antirrhinum

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday fic for my co-sinner, [agent-gwendolyn](http://agent-gwendolyn.tumblr.com/). Templar Henry is an obsession of hers, and [her illustrations of this incarnation of Henry are not to be missed.](http://ficthepainaway.tumblr.com/tagged/templar-henry-au) But wait: if you don't want to be spoiled for the fic ahead, **don't read the text post at the bottom of that tag.**
> 
> Thanks so, so much to [LivaWilborg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg) for the beta!

****Evie's fingers find the piano keys. She presses them down carefully, making as little noise as she can.

D A D E F D

Nothing happens. Sure, Evie's a little rusty, but she's certain those are the right notes. She looks back over her shoulder at the music scrawled over the fireplace. No key signature, no time signature. She'll play it by ear.

D A D E—she cocks her head—F♯ D

That does it. The floorboards shudder and sunder with a puff of dust. Evie steps forward, and the piano continues to play a jaunty tune behind her.

Suppressing a smile, she whispers, "Clearly, Kenway had a strong sense of spectacle." Not much of a surprise, she supposes, given the stories passed down by him and about him. Gold, glory, and explosions—he'd be a favorite of Jacob's if Jacob gave a damn about Assassin history. Though given Kenway's penchant for troublemaking, maybe the less Jacob knows about this particular Master Assassin, the better.

Evie pads down the stairs to the cellar, the temperature dropping as she descends. It's light inside, the glow from a few old oil lamps quivering against the brick and stone walls. Someone's been here recently.

Correction: someone's here right now.

A man in a Templar uniform throws the lever to close the opening. Evie reels and pins him against a bookcase, her forearm against his throat and her blade half an inch from his pupil.

The man's dark eyes glance impassively at the blade and then fix on Evie. She's thinking two or three moves ahead, about where his arms and legs are positioned relative to hers and how he might strike and how she might counter, but even so it sinks in that this man— _Templar,_ Evie thinks sternly—is unforgivably handsome. Black hair expertly trimmed and parted but curling around his ears where it's getting a little long. Earrings glinting near the hinge of his stubbled jaw. _Templar_ , Evie reminds herself.

With as much poise as he can muster with an arm bearing down on his larynx, the Templar says, "Hello, Miss Frye."

"Who are you?" she hisses. She wishes he looked a little more intimidated by the blade ready to plunge into his skull—his cool gaze and even tone are disheartening.

The man smiles, if you can call it that. Evie bares her teeth too but in a threatening grimace. "These days it's Henry Green."

Henry Green: the Assassin who defected to the Templars not long before she and Jacob joined the fight. Her father called him Jayadeep.

 **_Calls_ ** _him Jayadeep_ , she thinks. _Present tense, Evie. You'll find your father yet._

Ethan says Henry was pushed too far and punished too harshly. Trying to undo their initial mistakes with him in India, the Brotherhood made Henry into a ghost. But when they brought him back to the surface, he came back as someone—something—new. And like with so many things that hadn't gone according to plan, Ethan blames himself for losing Henry to the enemy.

"What do you want?" Evie asks. She has a hunch that, for once, the answer isn't 'to kill you.' That only makes this encounter more off-putting.

Henry replies, "To help."

Evie scoffs. "Oh?" _A deal with a devil—what a proposal._ "And tell me, how would you like to help, Mr. Green?"

Henry swallows; she can feel his throat working under her arm. "Release me first."

Evie huffs an acidic laugh. "I think not. Why should I trust you?"

Henry's eyes flicker back to Evie's blade, and that's all the warning she gets before he moves, throwing off her arm and dodging her killing strike as it comes down by his ear. He lands a headbutt and, while Evie's vision swims, trips her and sends her to the ground. He's quick—uncannily so, even for an Assassin-turned-Templar—which is how he pins her gauntlet above her head with one hand, traps the other wrist under his knee, and gets his gloved fingers wrapped around her throat before she can so much as gasp in surprise.

"Because I could have started our discussion like this, instead of granting you a margin of control," he says by way of explanation. His smile hasn't vanished, but it's turned undeniably sour.

He looms over her, blotting out the light in the room. Evie feels his grip on her throat tighten and, not thinking, she wheezes, "My father says you don't have a killer instinct."

A shadow passes over Henry's face, quick. It's there, then it's gone. He releases his hold and mutters, "The worst kept secret in this whole war."

For an absurd moment, Evie's about to tell him it's all right to lack the wherewithal to end a life. That all the slicing, poisoning, and smothering is something that _should_ give a person pause. Then she remembers who she's dealing with and bites her tongue. Henry stands and holds out a hand, but Evie doesn't take it. She rolls to her feet and backs away; readies her blade in case he decides to come at her again.

Henry's very still, watching Evie as she puts the table in the center of the room between them. "Listen," he says, "please. I, like you, want to keep Starrick from finding the Shroud."

 _So it **is** the Shroud! _ she thinks. The notebook pilfered from Lucy Thorne had that much right. She tries not to think of how much more they might have learned had Jacob not botched the document retrieval.

Henry continues, "From what I can gather, Starrick plans to use the Shroud to strengthen and expand the British Empire. But you know as well as I do that the countries under the Empire's control suffer terribly—including my home country. Capitalism has skewed the Templars' purpose. Halting Starrick's rise is the first step to setting things right for India, for the Templars, and for the Assassins."

Evie turns this over in her mind. The prevailing interest of the Templars has long been global control, a New World Order that dissolves both personal freedom and man-made borders. So this is a curious take on their quest. Then again, Henry took a curious path to becoming a Templar.

"I didn't think Templars could be nationalists," she comments, at a loss for something else to say.

Henry tilts into a shrug. "Not a nationalist," he replies. "More of a…Templar originalist."

"You would let the Assassins have a Piece of Eden?" Evie asks. "Just like that?"

Henry blinks, then indicates the chess board in the corner of the room with one hand. "Think of it like a chess game, Miss Frye," he replies. "We must sacrifice a piece now and then."

Evie's not considering it. She's really not. Just as she opens her mouth to ask another question meant to unearth Henry's true intent, Lucy Thorne's clipped tones drift down from above. "You said you heard music?"

Another voice: "Yes, Miss Thorne."

A few notes ring out from the piano, then someone runs their hand across the keys, low to high. At the end of the glissando, the mechanism in the cellar door clicks but doesn't open.

"What was that?" Lucy asks, sounding eager. She's met with silence. "Get Henrietta and scour this room. Examine this piano closely; it could be a trigger."

The other voice, again: "Yes, Miss Thorne. Right away."

Henry and Evie look from the ceiling to each other. "It appears we're running out of time," Henry says, soft. "On the desk there—a disk and a document. They should get you closer to the Shroud."

Evie turns to look where Henry's pointing. Sure enough, on a desk behind her sits an ornate golden disk and a dusty paper, curled at the edges and covered in flowing cursive.

"Take them," Henry urges, "as a show of good faith." Evie does, slipping the objects in her coat and waiting for the trap to be sprung. Nothing. Instead, Henry informs her, "I believe the ship's wheel behind you opens a second exit. Use it. I will not follow you."

Evie considers saying thank you, but opts instead to beat a hasty retreat. As she backs into the passage opened by the wheel, Henry smirks and murmurs, "I'm certain we will meet again soon, Miss Frye."

"I sincerely hope not."

—

Disarmed, Lucy charges Evie with a furious howl. Evie braces for a punch and is caught off guard when Lucy goes for the key instead. She wraps her fingers around the beaded chain and vaults through the window feet-first, sending a glimmering spray of colored glass into the air.

Evie catches herself just before her throat is carved open on the window's jagged remains.

Lucy produces a knife—small and deceivingly delicate, much like Lucy herself in that pernickety doll hat—and slices the necklace from Evie's throat. Evie stumbles backward for a fraction of a second, off-balance, and by the time she's back at the window, Lucy's gone.

"No!" Evie ducks her head and crashes through the window on Lucy's tail.

She makes a quick circle of the Golden Gallery, then skids down the cathedral dome, stained with time, water, and soot. She hurtles over the balustrade and scrambles down the columns at the drum of the dome, landing hard on the cathedral roof and rolling to her feet.

Evie pauses to listen for the sound of retreating footfalls. Nothing. She sprints to one edge of the building, then the other, looking frantically for Lucy. Again, nothing. She turns and drops along the cathedral facade, fingers catching each cornice and puckered stone and windowsill just long enough to keep her from breaking her legs on landing.

Evie carelessly barrels over the groundskeeper raking leaves on her way to the street, and ignores his cry of "Oi!" as she rushes forward. No sign of disturbance to the east, so she bolts westward—searching, hoping. She rounds the cathedral and looks along Paternoster Row. There's no Lucy, only a number of printers and booksellers ending their shifts.

Evie stops in the street, out of breath. "Damn it!"

She considers retrieving Lucy's dagger from the secret room, but knows it's no use. No evidence Lucy left behind will produce a trail now. The woman vanished so completely and easily it would strike envy in Evie if she wasn't too busy being irate.

She pauses to compose herself and wipes the sweat from her brow. Her fingers come away red and sticky with blood. _Lovely_.

How did Lucy even know to find her at St. Paul's? Evie can only come up with one answer. Holding it in her mind, she scales a nearby building and zips south to the Thames, then west along the riverbank.

Evie and Jacob have built a modest spy network within the Rooks, and the most talented and trusted members of the team have been gathering information on high-ranking Templars. That's how she knows to find Henry Green in posh Belgravia, where his sizeable stipend from Starrick allows him to hide in plain sight and high fashion.

She's standing on the footpath in front of his home—number 11 in a terrace of identical white stucco houses—when she realizes she doesn't have a plan. Evie's not an improviser. She doesn't even step off the train without consulting a map to determine the quickest route to her destination. Evie's a strategist to a fault, meaning that confronting a Templar ad hoc is well outside her comfort zone…in more ways than one.

But the desire to wring a confession from Henry Green (and then proceed to wring his neck) is so powerful, it has Evie taking a deep breath, then marching right up to the front door. She tries to ignore the voice at the corner of her mind that sounds so much like Jacob jeering, _Evie, this just isn't like you_. She knocks.

She expects a servant to answer, but it's Henry who opens the door. He looks the same as he did at the Kenway Mansion, though he's lost the cloak, gloves, and the pearls he wore around his collar before.

His neutral expression betrays nothing: no surprise, no expectation, no anger, no delight. But she can tell he's examining her closely when he says, "Why hello, Miss Frye." He smiles, and it doesn't quite meet his eyes.

"You sent Lucy Thorne after me," Evie snarls, temper rising at the sight of Henry's false simper. "Didn't you?"

Henry shakes his head, earrings swinging minutely. "I did no such thing."

"Lie!" she snaps, then takes a steadying breath. With a little less heat, she repeats it: "That's a lie."

"Again, I disagree," Henry says. He stands aside and nods toward a room out of view from the foyer. "Come inside."

Evie wrinkles her nose. "You must be joking." Henry returns her incredulous look.

"I'm not asking you to surrender your weapons. You can even have a look around the house if you like—I've nothing to hide from you." Evie stays rooted to the spot. Henry sighs and, voice pitched low, reiterates, "Come inside, Miss Frye."

Evie hesitates a moment longer before stepping over the threshold, tense. She hears Jacob again, cackling. _Oh, this is good._

"Now what's this about Miss Thorne?" Henry asks, closing the door.

"She met me in the room where the key was hidden," Evie explains. Henry lifts an eyebrow then passes her by, motioning for her to follow. "How could she know where to find me if not for a tip from you?"

Henry's quiet for a moment, the silence broken only by the muffled sounds of their boots on the rug as they cross the foyer. It's a well-appointed house, draped in taupe and scarlet with accents in the same royal purple as the sash at Henry's waist.

Henry says, "I had very little time with the notes in the Kenway Mansion, and I gleaned little from them. Even if I wanted to tattle to Miss Thorne, I doubt I could give her any information that her massive library of research on the Shroud didn't already impart."

Henry leads her to a sitting area. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows and bathes the room in gold. Evie chooses a wingback chair that faces the door and sits stiffly, watching and listening for any sign that they're not alone. "The Templars have spies all over the city, Miss Frye, and they're watching you and your brother as you move around London," Henry continues, lowering himself into an identical chair on the other side of a pedestal table. "Is there any chance they might have spotted you doing something unusual and sent runners to fetch Miss Thorne?"

Evie thinks of scaling the Monument and the crowd gathered for a speech below. She recalls her long search for the engraving on the roof of St. Paul's, then her struggle to solve the puzzle hidden behind it. The cathedral is a stone's throw from the Kenway Mansion—if Lucy was there, she could have caught up with Evie even if she'd run some errands on the way.

"Did you retrieve the key, at least?" Henry prompts.

Evie blows out a sigh and shakes her head. "Lucy has it."

She lowers her hood, forgetting about the gash she got from the window until Henry sits forward, frowning. "You're hurt," he says. "I'll fetch something to clean your cut."

Evie insists she's fine, but Henry pays her no mind. He strides out of the room, rolling up his sleeves as he goes, and Evie listens to his footsteps retreating down the hall.

"What am I doing here?" she whispers.

Yes, Evie needs help searching for the Shroud. Yes, Evie knows she's not going to get that help from Jacob—he's too busy running wild with his Rooks and, when she does bring him along, he manages to bungle everything. But is she so far behind that she needs to team up with a Templar? She doesn't know if it's better that he used to be an Assassin or worse. Worse, probably. What would George say? What would _Father_ say?

Henry returns a few minutes later (minutes Evie spent weighing whether to stay or go) with a tea tray in his hands. He sets it on the side table and Evie looks at its contents: a small wash basin, some cloths, and what looks like a sugar bowl.

"Thank you," she says, reaching for one of the cloths.

Henry brushes her hand with his, pushing it gently away. "Let me."

She sighs. "Really, Mr. Green—"

"Evie," he says, stern. She starts at the sound of her first name, then glances up to meet Henry's cool look with a bewildered one. "Let me."

Henry pulls a chair around in front of hers and sits forward, urging Evie to do the same with a detached come-hither motion. He's wetting a cloth and wringing it out when Evie slides to the edge of her chair and tips her face up, pointing her eyes demurely away.

Henry starts dabbing at her forehead with the cloth, then lifts his other hand to cup her chin. Evie flinches, but Henry acts as though he didn't see. He goes to work, rubbing away dried blood, pausing now and again to rinse the cloth. As he starts cleaning the wound proper, he speaks.

"I'm not certain where Miss Thorne will stow the key now that she has it," he tells her. Evie glances at Henry and sees he's focused on her cut, not her eyes. She takes the opportunity to examine his face. His skin looks so smooth up close, discounting the stubble. She watches his lips as he speaks and notes their fullness—objectively, of course. "If I find out, I will send word. But I suspect our best bet will be waiting until she takes the key to its companion lock."

"Kill two birds with one stone," Evie says.

"Mmm. I prefer 'plant two trees with one seed,'" Henry supplies. Of course. A non-lethal metaphor from the ex-Assassin who couldn't kill.

"So, what happens when we find the Shroud?"

Henry switches cloths, dipping the new one and wringing it out. The water in the basin is starting to darken. "Whatever the Assassins want," Henry says. "Destroy it, if you can. Take it far away if you can't."

Evie still plans to kill Starrick, once she has the chance. Henry hasn't expressed his opinion on the Grand Master aside from a desire to keep him from controlling the Empire. Is it possible he would help the Assassins take Starrick out? What about the other Templar officers? If Henry rose to the top of the Order…would they continue to cooperate, or would she have to dispatch him too?

Henry already graces their map of Templar targets on the train, put together with help from the Rook spies (and George, albeit grudgingly). It's possible Jacob would get to Henry before any part of this plan played out. So there's no reason to think ahead to the possibility of a detente between their factions.

In the meantime, Evie puts her energy into _not_ fixating on Henry's palm caressing her face or the warmth of his knees where they trap hers.

Henry puts down the cloth and lifts the container from the tea tray. It's not sugar inside—it's a thick, yellow salve that smells bitter and cloying all at once. Evie leans away and asks, "What is that?"

"Honey and turmeric," Henry replies evenly, dipping his finger into the mixture. He glances up at Evie and observes, "You're…making a face."

"Wouldn't it be best to clean the cut with alcohol?" she supplies, eyeing the salve suspiciously.

"No," Henry says, firm. He leans forward and starts smudging the mixture on her forehead, making Evie grimace. She's glad she has the hood to cover this up once she goes—she's certain she looks ridiculous. "Alcohol makes you itch and swell. Separately and together, honey and turmeric will lessen pain and swelling all while fighting infection."

She wrinkles her brow skeptically, which makes Henry sigh. "Ask your father—he's used this remedy a time or two," he says, and Evie stiffens. Henry notices and stops applying the salve. "Is something the matter?"

"It's…my father is missing, actually," Evie explains, looking away. "He has been for some months now."

"Oh." Henry straightens. "I'm sorry, Evie…er, Miss Frye. I didn't know." He opens his mouth to add something but appears to think better of it, instead going back to the bowl for more honey and turmeric. He finishes his work and sets the mixture aside, then wipes his hands on one of the cloths.

"We didn't part on good terms, obviously," Henry says. "But even so that news is…troubling. I'm very sorry. Do you have any leads?" Evie shakes her head. "Well. He's a smart and capable man; I'm certain that he's well, wherever he is."

Evie's not so sure. What cause would Ethan have to leave Crawley? Painful as it is to consider, Evie hopes he left because now that she and Jacob have finished their training, Ethan doesn't have to pretend to forgive them for Cecily's death anymore. It's less frightening than the alternative that keeps her preoccupied—one where he is in danger.

Evie must be projecting her thoughts, because Henry's expression clouds over. He reaches forward to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. He traces his fingers along her jaw, her neck, making Evie shiver, then stills when the pad of his thumb brushes her lower lip.

A polite rap on the doorframe breaks them apart. "Dinner's ready, Mr. Green," says an apron-wearing woman from her position in the doorway. She looks Evie over and continues, "Should I put out an additional place setting?"

Henry twists, and answers, "Yes, w—"

"No, no thank you," Evie interrupts. She gets to her feet, brushing off her clothes reflexively. She looks down at Henry, who's raised an eyebrow, and says, "I should be going. Thank you for…" She trails off and motions at her forehead. "I'll see myself out."

—

A letter arrives for Evie, though she's not certain how. It doesn't come with the penny postage that Nigel fetches daily; she simply finds it on her pillow one afternoon, sealed and waiting. It's discreet, as her partnership with Henry warrants, but it's also a threat of sorts.

The letter reads, _Find me at the White Tower, Thursday after dark. Two trees from one seed._

But the way the letter materialized says, _I know where you hide, and I can come and go undetected_.

The thought of Henry Green prowling through the train while she was away, his gloved fingers and apathetic gaze gliding over her possessions…it makes Evie's stomach churn.

She spends the required amount of time wondering if it's a trap, but ultimately discounts the idea. A trap would imply she's being lured into an unsafe situation without her knowledge. But she knows the risks here. The Tower of London is crawling with members of the Queen's Guards, and if Lucy Thorne is going to be there hunting for the Shroud, it will be crawling with Templars as well. No matter how you cut it, this meeting is dangerous.

So Evie decides to follow Henry's instructions. She lines her coat with all the throwing knives and bullets and smoke bombs she can carry, then sneaks off the train and onto a ferry that takes her straight to her destination.

Crouching on the roof of one of the towers (the Beauchamp Tower, the Bowyer Tower, the Bloody Tower, who knows—even after studying the fortress there's no use trying to keep its many buildings straight), Evie stares down into the courtyard, watching scores of guards come and go. There are disguised Templars among their ranks; Evie can spot them by their gaits, not quite as practiced at marching as the military men around them.

The patrols on the battlements and the rooftops along the perimeter are sparse. The Queen's Guard and the Templars have concentrated their efforts on the courtyard and the White Tower.

Padding through standing water and soggy fallen leaves, Evie makes her way toward the soaring tower in the center of the courtyard. She sticks to the shadows as she creeps along its base, finally spotting Henry standing alone at the building's west wall. He smiles when he sees her, and it is familiar in its coldness and artificiality. He's not much of a faker, Henry Green.

"Miss Frye," he says, low. "You got my letter."

She has so many questions—like how he knew about the train and whether he delivered the letter personally or sent it with a lackey—but she skips them for now, choosing to simply nod a confirmation.

Henry continues, "Lucy Thorne's research turned up a sketch of a casket that matches the key. It's owned by the Queen and kept here." He nods toward the wall of the White Tower and, a little smug, adds, "For being the home of the Crown Jewels and so many other treasures, it was pitifully easy to infiltrate."

Evie ignores his gloating and infers, "So, we wait for Lucy to extract the Shroud, then follow her until the moment comes to strike?"

Henry shakes his head. "No. I'm not certain what the Shroud can do, but I don't think we want to face Miss Thorne while she has it in her possession." He's probably right; trying to injure or kill someone wearing an artifact that mends wounds can't be easy. "We recover the key," he continues, "and find the casket ourselves."

"How will we manage that?" Evie asks. "Surely there are a dozen Templars inside with her—we can't face them all."

"Two dozen, actually, maybe more," Henry corrects, unaffected by their bad odds. "I will bring you to Miss Thorne as my captive. You kill her, and the fight that breaks out afterward will attract the guards."

Evie blinks and raises her eyebrows, reviewing the plan. "You want me to eliminate Lucy Thorne and throw your colleagues on the blades of the Queen's Guard?" Evie says, slow. "Are you always so careless with your chess pieces, Mr. Green?"

Henry smirks, but doesn't answer her. Instead he says, "With the Templar escort divided and distracted, you should be able to escape. We return to find the Shroud once the Templars have been driven out."

Evie sighs. She's meant to be the patient sibling, but the idea of letting the Piece of Eden wait for even a few hours more has her anxious. She's _so_ close.

"So," Henry prompts, releasing a breath. "Are you ready?"

Evie looks him in the eye, assessing. Henry cocks his head, assessing her back. She offers a curt nod, then pivots and clasps her hands at the small of her back. "Make it look convincing," she tells him.

Henry pins her wrists where she's offered them, and the strain on her shoulders stings more than she was expecting. No wonder all her kidnappees complain incessantly. He cocks the hammer of his pistol with a _click_ and holds it to the base of her skull. Leaning in, lips brushing the shell of her ear, Henry murmurs, "That shouldn't be a problem." Evie suppresses a shiver.

Henry walks her around the corner and up the stairs to the north entrance of the White Tower. He taps his gun on the window of the door and a Templar's face appears there a moment later, wide eyes darting back and forth between Evie and Henry.

The Templar opens the door and says, "What have we got here?"

Henry makes a show of adjusting his grip on Evie, and she squirms against the pressure. "A rat caught sneaking along the walls," Henry replies. "I thought Miss Thorne might like a private audience."

The Templar shakes his head, not in denial but in pity. "I knew we'd draw you out," he grunts, standing aside. "Driscoll!" he calls over his shoulder. "Tell Miss Thorne she's got a visitor."

Henry steers Evie inside and up the stairs. She tries to school her face into an expression of anger, but she's distracted by the heraldry all around them. Rich pennants hang from the stone, and shining suits of armor are on display behind velvet ropes. Evie loves these old walls, so rich with history…she wishes she could linger and take it all in.

Henry's estimates were right—there are dozens of Templars in the tower, all laughing and jeering as they pass. He guides her into St. John's Chapel, bare but for the curtains hung around the room. A handful of Templars watch them from between the columns and from above, dotted among the arches. Lucy Thorne is at the end of the semicircular chamber, using the chapel altar as a makeshift desk.

"I didn't expect you here, Green," Lucy comments, all but glowering at Henry as she rounds the altar. "You're not part of this assignment."

"Master Starrick sent me as a precaution," Henry explains. "Doesn't want you running off with the Shroud once you have it in your possession. I'm sure you understand."

The way Lucy's lip curls implies otherwise. She turns her attention to Evie and says, "Welcome, Miss Frye. Care to tell me where the Shroud is?"

 _She doesn't know…_ Evie thinks, quiet. _Does that mean it's not here?_

Not waiting for a response, Lucy presses on. "Very well. One false lead is not a defeat. I'll find it without your help. And when I do, I'll strangle you with it," she finishes through clenched teeth. Sardonically, Evie wonders how that would work—strangling someone with a tool of healing. She opts to bite her tongue, and Lucy turns her back on them, telling her guards to watch them closely. That's Evie's window.

She lunges forward, knocking the nearest Templar out of the way. Lucy lashes out with a shimmering candlestick, but Evie ducks it easily, then sinks her blade deep into Lucy's neck.

Just as she's picked the key off Lucy's body, the Templar guard Evie had knocked to the ground rushes her. She dispatches him again, with her cane-sword this time. Evie knocks the next foe that comes at her into a nearby column, and the blow to the head sends him sliding to the floor. Another Templar surges toward her, and Evie rolls out of her way and sticks her with her hidden blade.

She's on her feet and ready to dash when she spots Henry—not feigning an assault on Evie but being pinned to the ground by two other Templars. _Oh no._

Before assassinating Lucy, she should have knocked Henry out, or at least made more of a production of breaking free of his gentle grip. But she saw her opportunity to strike and she went for it…and now Evie's accomplice has been found out.

If she took a moment to think about it, Evie would see that there's no reason to save Henry. That with the key in her possession and with the Templars at a loss on the Shroud's location, Henry's ongoing assistance does nothing for her. Unfortunately, she doesn't have a moment to think. She only sees an ally, temporary or not, under assault.

Evie extracts two throwing knives from the lining of her coat and flings them at Henry's attackers, felling them both. They collapse in a heap on top of Henry, who looks up, wearing the first real emotion she's ever seen on his face: shock.

She extends a hand, and he takes it.

Only a few Templars are left in the room now. One of them howls, "Treacherous _snake!"_ and charges Henry. Henry pivots, raises his arm, and fires a bullet straight through the Templar's eye. Henry freezes there, arm up, expression twisting from surprise into revulsion.

"Henry!" Evie says. She grabs him by the arm and pulls him bodily out of his trance. They flee, leaving the other Templars behind.

Things are proceeding like Henry had planned outside the chapel, at least: Templars and members of the Queen's Guard are clashing everywhere—shouting, shooting, snapping each other's bones. Evie and Henry trip down the stairs and out the door they came in. They sprint across the courtyard, dodging the blows and bullets of Templars and guardsmen alike.

They rush south toward the Thames, scrabbling easily up the uneven fortress walls. After dropping to the street below, they dash for the water and launch themselves onto the empty bow of a passing canal boat, likely on its last run for the night. They leave the Tower of London behind, the sound of alarm bells fading as the boat glides downstream.

Evie looks at the key held in her fist. She clasps it around her neck and tucks it under her scarf, the metal cool on her skin. If just anyone can stroll onto the train, she'll have to wear it until they find the Shroud. There's no place safer.

Henry's pacing back and forth, eyes wild. "Mr. Green?" Evie murmurs. He keeps pacing, keeps smoothing his hands over his hair reflexively. She touches hand his arm. "Henry."

He lurches away and spits _"Don't touch me!"_

Evie raises her other hand, trying to placate, and says, "Mr. Green, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for—"

"Why didn't you leave me?" he snaps.

Evie blinks. Is that not obvious? "They were attacking you," she replies, going slow. "They figured out you were helping me."

"I could have talked my way out of it," Henry mutters, half to himself. "I could have…I could have…" He lets loose an anguished cry and drives his fist into the cabin wall.

Henry goes back to pacing, and Evie stays out of his way.

—

Evie hasn't seen Henry for weeks.

On one hand, this is exactly the outcome she had hoped for. She has the key and, with it, a major advantage in the search for the Shroud. No clandestine partnerships to balance means a clearer path to the Piece of Eden and to beating back the Templars' control on London.

On the other hand, she's made no progress on finding the vault. She's studied the key and all her notes on the Shroud for hours, for days, and has come up blank. She has George on the case too, but he's failed to turn anything up. She tried to use Jacob as a fresh set of eyes, but all he said was something to the effect of, "I don't know, Evie, it's just an overwrought rectangle," and took his leave.

She needs help. She needs Henry.

That's why Evie's standing in front of his home in Belgravia again. The Rook spy network has seen nothing of Henry since the night at the Tower of London, and Evie has no idea if he's still at this address—or still alive. But his house is her first and only lead.

Evie raps on the door, then stands back and waits. When she gets no answer, she looks to the windows for some sign of life, but they're all shuttered. The street and the footpath are bustling with people, so instead of picking the lock or scaling the house's facade, she walks around the terrace to the quiet back garden. She spots a narrow balcony on the upper level, then climbs up to it and tries the door. Locked, naturally. But she'll attract fewer eyes up here than at the front of the house, so she crouches and goes to work.

Henry has a finicky lever tumbler lock on this door, but it's nothing her curtain pick can't handle. It gives after a few minutes and Evie lets herself into Henry's bedroom. It's dim inside once she closes the curtained balcony doors, but the light filtering in from the hallway shows her a grand four-poster bed, the blankets and pillows in a twisted mess. She passes between the sofa at the foot of the bed and the table and plush chairs on the other end the room. She's on her way out the door when a fat tome sitting on Henry's writing desk catches her eye.

 _"The Language of Flowers,"_ she reads, whispering. She runs the pad of her thumb along the pages and opens the book to a section marked with a pressed flower. Even dead and dried, it's a perfect match for the engraving on the page.

Oleander. _Nerium oleander.  
_ CAUTION.

She leafs backward, finding more flowers tucked in the pages, no doubt collected by Henry for his improvised herbarium.

Jonquil. _Narcissus jonquilla.  
_ AFFECTION RETURNED.

Amaryllis. _Amaryllis formosissima.  
_ PRIDE.

"Miss Frye."

Evie whirls, slamming the book shut and taking a couple of steps backward. Henry's in the doorway with a curved dagger held limply in one hand. He's looking a lot worse for wear—stubble grown into a short beard, hair out of its neat style and hanging loosely at chin-length. He's traded his slim and severe Templar threads for a kurta, churidars, and bare feet.

"You snuck up on me," she breathes. Assassin training or no, that's quite a feat on Henry's part.

He lifts his eyebrows and asks, "Would you like some privacy?" She knows it's a joke (she _thinks_ it's a joke) but Henry's so straight-faced as he says it that she second-guesses her instinct to laugh.

"No—I'm sorry. You didn't answer the door, so I…" She waves one hand toward the balcony. "I'm glad you're all right."

Henry snorts quietly, like they disagree on the definitional tenets of 'all right.' He steps forward to lay his blade on the writing desk, not needing it to threaten the intruder after all.

Evie joins Henry at the desk and, going for lighthearted, asks, "Did you collect these flowers?"

"I did." He opens the book to 'Lily of the valley. _Convallaria majalis._ HUMILITY.'

"That's a…curious hobby," she comments.

"Is it?" Henry asks doubtfully. "I'm told it's something of a British pastime."

What she meant was 'that's a curious hobby for _you.'_ She imagines Henry, all in black, on his way home from a day of plotting how to double-cross the Grand Master of the British Rite of the Templar Order…stopping to pick flowers. Instead of elaborating, she asks, "Do you have any favorites?"

Henry smirks, but it's so brief she almost misses it. "Some of the supposed symbolic meanings do amuse me. Such as…" He flips nimbly through the pages. "Mignonette. 'Your qualities surpass your charms.' Or…monkshood. 'A deadly foe is near,'" he finishes, in a hushed tone of mock-severity.

"Is that most efficient way to warn someone of a threat?" Evie wonders aloud. "To send a bouquet?"

Henry chuckles and tilts his head in acknowledgment of her point. "Perhaps you're meant to wear it in your lapel when the danger is near?"

Evie hums, considering. "But what if this foe is also versed in the language of flowers? You'll give yourself away."

Henry sighs on the edge of a tired smile. "It's not a particularly reliable system," he confirms, and gently closes the book. Up close, Evie can see there are dark rings under his eyes. And she may be imagining it—it's hard to tell with the beard—but he's looking a bit thin. Eyes passing between hers, Henry finally asks, "Why are you in my house, Evie?"

Evie nods once, ready to get to business, then draws the key out from beneath her collar and undoes the clasp. "I came to ask for your help."

Henry holds out his hand for the key, and Evie deposits it there, careful not to brush her fingers against his. "No luck finding the Shroud?" he says. The beaded chain rustles as he turns the key over in his hand, examining it.

"None," Evie replies. "Nothing in my documents gives any hints about where to turn next."

Henry's eyes linger on the key, on its strange pattern of bright, criss-crossing lines. After a moment he replies, "It sounds like what you need are more documents." He closes his fingers over the key and adds, "Come."

Evie follows Henry out of the bedroom and into a study, where he lights a gas lamp on the wall. The room is cluttered with curios and taxidermied beasts (she wonders idly if Henry hunted them, or if his lack of killer instinct spreads to animals too). Even so, it's meticulously organized—all the books and papers carefully stacked, all the edges and corners aligned. She can tell no one's been in to clean for a while, however. There is a fine layer of dust on unused surfaces and there are smudges on the most trafficked path on the floor.

"I have a sample of Miss Thorne's research on the Shroud," he says. He heaves a big crate full of books and letters and maps onto a low table flanked by matching settees. Calling it a 'sample' seems ungenerous—it may only be some of the felled Templar's research, but there's a _lot_ there. Far more than what Evie has in her possession, certainly.

"How did you get these?" Evie asks, lifting a tome from the crate. The leather cover, embossed with an Assassin sigil, reads _Historiarum Sicariorum Britanniae._

Henry gives her a quick, sideways look then replies, "I still have a few friends in the Order. It's how I'm still in this house, though my movements have been…considerably restricted." Evie wants to ask about his allies, about how he's getting food and when the last time he left his house was. But before she can formulate her next question, Henry lowers himself onto one of the settees and asks, "What do you have so far?"

Evie clears her throat. "Like I said, very little," she tells him. "If we assume Lucy Thorne was right about the Shroud being in the Queen's possession, only wrong about it being at the Tower of London…that's a start."

Henry nods tightly. "That's an excellent start," he confirms. He lays the key down on the table with a _click_ and says, "I'll fetch us some tea. You start looking for anything regarding the royal family."

When Henry comes back, Evie is already deep in a collection of dense letters patent. Henry settles across the table from her and they go to work, parsing charters and royal summonses and surprisingly dry accounts of monarchs' final moments. Apparently Lucy Thorne held onto _everything_ she found, and Henry's contacts within the Order didn't do any pruning before transferring these documents to him.

The sun has long since set past the shuttered windows and Henry has come up with another pot of tea (along with a bottle of gin, which Evie turned down but Henry added liberally to his cup) when they finally find something.

"Henry!" Evie blurts, then corrects herself, "Mr. Green—look."

Over the course of the evening they migrated from their separate settees to the floor, then from opposite sides of the table to the same side. It's easier to review documents this way, and if Evie's privately enjoying the warmth of Henry's knee against hers, the occasional brush of his arm—that's her business. She holds up the letter, covered in the Prince Consort's slanted and stretched penmanship. A rectangle is drawn in the very corner—something that might be passed off as a doodle if royal letters contained such things, and something that might have torn away if the letter hadn't been so carefully preserved. The markings filled in on it are a precise match for the engravings on the key.

Henry touches the symbol. "Is that…?"

"It has to be," Evie says, a smile pulling at her lips. At last, a clue. She was starting to lose hope. "The letter says so little, though—a 'thank you for your visit and your counsel.'"

Henry leans close, bracing himself on one arm that lines up against her lower back. She wants to tilt into it, but resists. "Could it be a cipher?" he asks.

Evie shakes her head. "I don't think so." She scans the letter again. "It's addressed to 'My dear Mr. Blore.' Do you know that name?"

Henry straightens. "I might," he breathes. "When is it dated?"

"Eighteen forty-sev— _oh!"_

Henry leans forward on his knees and directly over Evie's lap to rifle through the documents she discarded on the floor there. He picks up a sheaf and rocks back to sit hard on the floor, Evie holding the letter up and out of the way as he does so. Henry starts flipping through folios so quickly his fingers blur, then pulls out another letter with a triumphant flourish.

"Mr. Blore is _Edward_ Blore," Henry declares, all in a rush. "An architect. And do you know what 1847 is?" He looks at Evie, grinning like a man full of answers. Which is good, because Evie's still a little off-kilter from him crawling over her. She shakes her head. "That's the year the Prince began renovations to Buckingham Palace."

It clicks. She hisses, "Do you think he added a vault for the Shroud?"

Henry's smile is bright and brilliant like fire, which explains why Evie's face feels a little warm regarding him. "That's precisely what I think. And I know where we can get our hands on some detailed plans of the renovations." He slips the letter out of her hands and looks at it, flicking his index finger against the corner where the key is drawn. "Well done, Evie."

"Thank you," she says and averts her gaze. "But it's—you would have found this yourself, so…"

"No, not without your help." Henry lays a hand on her thigh, and the heat sinks through her layers, spreads faster than wildfire. Evie looks from his hand to his face, shocked. "I knew you were the partner I needed," he murmurs.

Henry's touch is gentle, is measured, but Evie freezes there like he has her in a chokehold. She's nervous under his scrutiny, but when she tries to turn her eyes away she finds herself looking at his mouth instead, at his full lips which part oh-so-slightly at the very moment she wonders what it would be like to kiss them.

Henry tilts close, closer, fingers coming up to touch the hinge of her jaw. He rests his forehead on hers, noses touching, his eyelids lowered while he trains his gaze on her lips. Evie's stomach is twisting and her hands are sweating and she wants this like nothing else, wants to know what Henry's mouth feels like on hers, wants to know what it would be like to move together, skin on skin.

But then she can hear Jacob's voice in the recesses of her mind, and it's not supplementing its usual laughing, drawling commentary. _A Templar, Evie?_ it asks, sounding mortified. Because even with his contempt for their father's teachings and his loose adherence to the Creed, Jacob has lines he will not cross. _What are you thinking?_

With this burst of sanity comes a burst of movement. Evie pulls away from Henry and scrambles to her feet. "Erm…" She has enough clarity to snatch the key off the table before walking backward toward the door, looking everywhere but at Henry (and knowing he's watching her closely the whole time). "Thank you for your help and for the tea, but I—I really must be going. You may send me details on what's next with the Palace plans."

Henry's still on the floor. He pulls his knees up, resting his arms on them. "Perhaps I'll send a bouquet," he suggests, sounding utterly unfazed.

Evie manages to back into the open doorway and out to the hallway beyond, half-lit from Henry's last trip to the kitchen. "Have a lovely evening, Mr. Green," she tells him, face hot, throat tight. "I'll see myself out."

—

Henry's looking like his old self the next time Evie sees him. He's shaven and suited up, halfway through knotting his violet necktie when he sneaks Evie through the front door.

"I apologize for the late notice," Henry says, referencing the message that arrived on the train in the hands of a skittish boy who hopped on at Victoria Station and wouldn't leave until Evie read the letter and handed him a written reply. "But we really must move tonight."

"Is this about the plans?" Evie asks. Henry's letter only requested a meeting and provided no additional details.

"It is." Henry finishes tying his tie and starts pulling on a pair of leather gloves. "It appears Starrick followed the same logic we did, about the Shroud being in the Queen's possession. He's sent people to lift plans of an array of royal residences and properties serving the crown, including the plans for the Buckingham Palace renovations."

Evie wants to swear, but bites her tongue. Every time they achieve a win, Starrick or one of his Templars swoop in to poach it. Instead of cursing, she asks, "What do we do?"

"We take them back," Henry says, like it's simple. "They're moving the plans as part of a shipment to Starrick's headquarters tonight. I have an address in the Strand, and a warning that it will be heavily guarded."

Henry pulls on a long overcoat and for once looks like a run-of-the-mill Templar lackey—aside from the gold rings through his ears and the rubies pinned to his peaked lapels, anyway. He closes the space between himself and Evie, and she feels her insides churn. "Thank you for joining me," he says, softly. "I'm certain I couldn't retrieve the plans alone."

They climb into a growler and start rattling in the direction of the Strand. Henry's silent and still, bent forward over his knees, fingers knit together. Evie wonders what he's thinking about. The mission and how they're going to find a single set of architectural plans among a whole shipment of goods? The risk of being caught by his old allies, undeniably partnered with a foe? It's hard to guess, with his face set in its usual expression of cool indifference. She thinks back to his smile when he pieced together the location of the Shroud—vivid and blinding. It's enough to set her stomach twisting again.

Henry and Evie slip out of the carriage when it rolls to a stop about a block away from the site of the transfer. They mount a stone fence cordoning off the properties and quickly scale the tallest building there to get a better look. Henry's Assassin background slips Evie's mind now and then, but she's reminded of it now by the quick and effortless way he climbs the facade with her. She's so tired of recruiting Rooks who can't keep up; she could get used to this.

Standing at the edge of the building, Henry by her side, Evie says, "We need a plan."

Henry nods. He looks as impassive as ever, but Evie sees his eyes flicker from guard to street lamp to open window, assessing. The area is heavily guarded, as expected, but it's dim—and they could turn the Templars' decision to operate under the cover of darkness against them.

"We'll split up," Henry explains. "I'll search the shipments in the south and west areas, you search the shipments in the north and east."

Evie nods. They do have a lot of ground to cover, a lot of crates to crack open. "Any idea what we're looking for?"

Henry sighs. "I'm not certain. Though if you find any additional plans, take those as well. That way, Starrick won't know which location we've pinpointed."

"That's a good idea," Evie replies. She's mapping her course to the other side of the Templar operation as she speaks. Rooftop, balcony, around the other side of that carriage…

Henry lays a hand on her shoulder, pulling her out of planning. "We'll meet back in Belgravia," he says, watching her eyes for confirmation. His fingers move down her arm and give her a brief squeeze on the wrist. "Good luck, Evie."

Henry walks to the edge of the rooftop and drops out of sight.

Evie's had some practice driving thoughts of Henry's soft touches out of her mind. She focuses on her missions: to find the Piece of Eden, to find her father. If that fails to distract her, she tries to recall passages of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad's partially-recovered and decrypted Codex word-for-word. Alternately, she attempts to remember the names of all the Rooks.

She's doing the latter now as she takes running jumps from building to building. _Walter, Mabel, Gus, Eli, Ettie…_ Evie slides down to a balcony then sinks to the ground, silent. _Jed, Lenora, Edith, Perry…_ She pops into a carriage and waits for a cluster of patrolling Templars to pass. She's out again and making the longest run without cover—from the carriage to the other side of the courtyard—when she hears a rope snap above.

Evie barely manages to dodge all the barrels that rain down from their severed netting, then a split-second later she's dodging a bullet fired by an approaching Templar.

There are a half-dozen of them—the same group she hid from in the carriage a moment ago. Evie fumbles for and throws down a smoke bomb, then takes out three Templars with ease: hidden blade, cane-sword, throwing knife. The smoke starts to clear and there are already three more on their way, drawing guns and daggers, stalking forward and shouting epithets.

Two more fall: throwing knife, cane-sword. Evie weighs the cost of making more noise (and attracting more Templars) against the benefit of using her pistol and decides against it, throwing her last smoke bomb and sprinting into the fray, blade out. She runs through the smoke and tries to round the corner to get out of sight, but is met with more Templar guards rapidly closing in on the action.

She spins back around the corner as a sniper on the roof fires her rifle. _Up,_ she thinks, and aims her gauntlet. But there's a brute of a Templar on her before she can engage the rope launcher, then another Templar, then another, wrestling her to the ground. She's fighting to extract her arm from their grip—she just needs one arm free, just one—when everything goes black.

—

Evie wakes to the sensation of fingers at her wrists, drawing ropes taut.

She jolts and starts fighting her restraints, rocking the chair back and forth and wiggling out of the ropes circling her arms and ribs.

"Evie! Evie, stop."

Henry dips into her field of vision, looking a little disheveled but otherwise unharmed. And she's so relieved he's here and he's all right, it takes her a moment to remember the rest.

"The plans," she hisses, looking from where Henry is cutting the binding from her ankles to the Templars around the room—all unconscious. "Did you find them?"

Henry finishes freeing her and pauses, crouched in front of her, before redirecting. He asks, "Did they hurt you?" and his eyes search hers, lips drawn into a frown.

"I'm fine," Evie tells him. Aside from a headache, she's in good shape. "The plans, Mr. Green?"

Henry blows out a sigh, confirming her hunch before the answer comes. "The plans are lost," he says. Henry gets to his feet, and Evie does the same, though her stomach plummets as she does so. "Let's go."

They escape the sewers where Evie was held, alternately knocking out and dispatching Templars as they go. Once they reach the street she recognizes they're in Covent Garden, quite far from the address where they'd been hunting for the palace renovation plans. They sneak through the market and onto King Street, where Henry hails another growler.

They sit in a different kind of silence than the trip over. Failure instead of anticipation. Moving farther away from their goal while the Templars close in.

"Starrick's going to get the Shroud," Evie breathes. Her head throbs dully where the knockout blow landed, and she digs her nails into her knee, trying to refocus the pain.

Henry shakes his head. "I'll get in contact with my allies. Someone will send runners the moment Starrick leaves for Buckingham Palace, and we will follow."

"Just us against an army of Templars and royal guards? What a wonderful idea, Henry—that worked out so well last time." Evie crosses her arms and watches the darkened buildings as they pass. "You should have left me and focused on finding the plans," she mutters. "Repaying a perceived debt after what happened at the Tower isn't as important as finding the Shroud."

Henry scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous; I'm being pragmatic," Evie snaps. Not only did she not need saving (she learned how to wriggle out of most any binding years ago, during training), but also, Henry's actions stand in direct contradiction to something she's been told her whole life. "My father says to never allow personal feelings to compromise the mission."

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Henry tilt his head toward the carriage ceiling. "Oh, I'm well aware of Ethan Frye's many maxims," Henry spits. "'Don't allow personal feelings to compromise the mission.' Shoddy advice that has served no one."

Evie grinds her teeth and growls, "Had you followed that advice you would be on the way to retrieving the Shroud right now!"

Henry opens his mouth to respond, but he stops at the sound of the driver halting the horses. He catches Evie's eye and holds up a finger. They exit the carriage, Henry pays the driver, then they walk up to the stoop of number 11 in silence. Evie clenches and unclenches her fists as Henry unlocks the door and flicks his wrist to indicate she should enter.

Henry closes the door behind them and pauses, hand flat against the frame, head bent like he's trying to collect himself. "If I could do it again, I would do the same thing," he says evenly. He straightens up and looks hard at Evie, then starts to close the distance between them, inch by inch. "And not just because I know what it's like to be thrown to the wolves in the pursuit of a Piece of Eden. I chose you, and I'd do it again."

Henry's so close that Evie's swallowed up by his shadow. Her instincts tell her to avert her eyes and step out of his orbit, but she finds she can't look away. And when he lifts his gloved fingers to her chin, she's trapped—rooted to the spot.

"You are…so very important to me," Henry murmurs, just a breath away. "Do you understand?"

Evie's heartbeat picks up. She tries to find the motivation, the words to take her leave, but all she can do is say, "Yes."

Henry searches her eyes, then surges forward to catch her mouth in a hungry kiss. It's harder and fiercer than she was ready for, but it's exactly the kiss she needs—it's hot and it's bruising, as much punishment as it is reward. This is falling for a Templar. This is doing the unthinkable.

Henry coaxes her lips open and Evie submits with a shameful whimper. He touches his tongue to hers, gentle, then tilts his head and goes deeper, rolling their tongues together. Evie shudders and grabs at his coat, his vest. She feels the eager sound Henry responds with vibrating under her fingers.

Henry gets his hands on Evie's waist and squeezes, crushingly hard, then starts walking her backward. She goes a bit artlessly, tripping when Henry snags her bottom lip between his teeth. Her calves hit the first step in the staircase, and she has to scrabble at Henry's shoulders to keep from toppling. "Upstairs," he urges, breathless. He lowers his head to mouth at the sensitive skin on her neck, inhaling deeply. "Up the stairs."

This is another chance for Evie to say no, to turn away from this. She doesn't take it. They climb the stairs—Evie's legs shake as she does so, like she's been running for miles—and they stop again at the landing to kiss against the wall, frantic and lavish and _sinful._ Henry gets his hands around her backside and hauls her upward. She goes, thighs catching around his hips. Even through their layers, the heat, the pressure has her moaning, has her rocking forward for more.

Henry nudges them along the wall then into the bedroom, depositing Evie roughly on the desk as his kneading fingers span her belly, her waist, her ribs. It's possessive; it's laying claim.

Henry starts at the buttons of her waistcoat, her belt, her trousers. Evie's shaking uncontrollably—with nervousness or with desire, she's not sure—but she helps him out, fighting out of her overcoat and shirt and unbuckling her holster as Henry drags off her boots, letting them drop loudly to the floor beneath her.

"Do you trust me?" he asks thickly, lips close to hers. They're stealing each other's air, and Evie feels dizzy with it. She can't find the words, but she manages to nod. She trusts him.

God help her, she trusts him.

Henry kisses along her jaw, back to her ear, teeth closing over her earlobe as he drags the neckline of her chemise down, his leather-covered thumbs rasping over the peaks of her nipples, making her jolt. Evie's explored her own body, certainly (as much as one can while growing up with a shared bedroom, anyway), but this— _this_ has never occurred to her. Henry's fingers scissor over the buds and she doesn't expect the coil of red pleasure it sends spiraling through her.

Then Henry bends and closes his mouth over one nipple and oh, _oh_ it makes her _ache._ She arches into the wet heat, a keening whine escaping her without permission as he licks and sucks, then moves to the other breast to do the same. It's like nothing she could have imagined, but it still can't prepare her for what's next. Henry sinks lower, peeling off his gloves before his fingers find her waistband and drag down her trousers and her drawers. Evie lifts her hips to make it easier, any shyness she might have had replaced by searing, directionless _need._

Henry _needs_ to touch her before she flies apart.

"Please," she whispers piteously, feeling her pulse thundering everywhere—her throat, her chest, between her legs. “Please, please.”

Henry hooks her legs over his shoulders and uses the same two fingers that had been closing over her nipple moments before to spread her open for him. Then he leans in—breath hot, eyes hotter—and laps at her throbbing clit.

Evie slaps her palm down on the desk, choking down a sob. Henry flicks his tongue, quick and ruthless, and digs his fingers into her thighs. She can't look at him—the sight of his head trapped between her legs is too much. Evie tips her head back against the wall and squeezes her eyes shut, moving her hips in tight circles, whimpering as Henry licks and sucks.

After a moment, Henry leans away, and Evie—feverish and aching, perplexed over why he stopped—lifts her head to look at him. One of Henry's hands leaves her thigh and traces along her slit, then he presses one finger slowly, carefully inside.

The sensation is not particularly good or bad, just—different. But the look on Henry's face as he watches a finger slip inside is so greedy that it makes Evie feel wild. She grinds forward and Henry answers by turning his palm up and curling his finger, and—oh, _oh,_ that is—strange and lovely. Evie quivers, white-knuckling the lip of the desk.

"More?" he rasps, watching her face.

Evie nods, hectic, and feels Henry slip another finger inside before he leans back in to work his tongue over her folds. He sips at her clit, fingers pushing harder and faster, and Evie's…dissolving. Trembling all over, muscles in her abdomen pulling tight—Henry works her back up to a frenzy. She's getting close, so close, just a little more…

Her orgasm hits hard, stealing her breath and ripping through her like fire. Evie gets a hand in Henry's hair and gasps, "Keep going…keep going…!" as she chases the sensation, not ready to come back to Earth. Henry provides, lapping at her until she's finished, until she's too sensitive for his touch and she has to nudge him away.

As Evie cools down she takes stock. She's naked but for the chemise barely hanging on her shoulders. Henry's on his knees on the floor, fully clothed, lips wet and eyes dark and looking for all the world like he's not finished. And even as soaked and sated as she feels, she doesn't want him to be finished.

Henry rises fluidly and starts loosening his tie. "On the bed," he growls. Evie doesn't need to be told twice. Her knees almost buckle as she lowers herself to the floor and pads over to his four-poster. She pulls her chemise over her head as she goes.

Henry isn't as frantic while he removes his own clothes. He goes piece by piece, calmly folding them and setting them over the back of a chair. It's immodest, it's indecent, but Evie wants to see more and see it now. She sits up and reaches out, and Henry comes closer. He stands very still, watching as Evie pulls at his shirt, working it down over his shoulders. She's mesmerized by the lean, muscular expanse of him, at the warmth radiating off his skin. She pauses as her fingers trip down to his waistband, nervousness momentarily overtaking lust.

But Henry waits. Henry waits, hungry eyes on Evie's face, until she finds the courage to flick open the buttons and inch his trousers down with shaking hands, following a line of dark hair down, down.

Henry's still quiet above her, gazing at Evie as Evie gazes at his erection, somewhere between craving and timidity. She wants to touch, and after a moment she does, rubbing curiously along the shaft, feeling it twitch in her palm. Above her, Henry gulps, then shivers.

"Do you trust me?" he breathes again, like a mantra.

She nods. "I trust you."

Henry touches her face, the first truly tender thing in the night, and it sends something fluttering in Evie's stomach. He murmurs, "Lie back." The fluttering turns to fire when he adds, "And spread your legs for me."

Evie does as she's told, feeling exposed and staring at the rich canopy above her as she listens to Henry step out of his trousers and his boots. The mattress dips beneath his weight and he settles between her thighs, pressing them wider than she thought they could go and sending a tendril of heat through her. Henry bears down, heavy, the thick brand of his erection dragging against where she's wet and getting wetter. Evie tips her hips up, seeking, and Henry's answering growl thrills her.

She thinks _take me, claim me,_ and a hundred other things too flowery to live anywhere but in _Fanny Hill_. What she says instead, just a whisper, is, "Do it."

Henry brushes his lips against hers, languorous when he licks into her mouth. One hand braced next to her on the bed, Henry lifts the other to position himself, then slowly, measuredly, pushes inside.

There's pressure—a little discomfort that grows and grows as Henry moves deeper and deeper, but it's never enough for her to make him stop. Every time she thinks he must be buried completely inside, there's more—tight, tight, tight. Evie's gasping, sweat breaking out everywhere and gathering behind her knees, and Henry's releasing little staccato pants, eyebrows tipping up as he sinks all the way down, then stops.

Evie's pinned beneath him, and looking at the way his hair hangs in his eyes, she's reminded of being pinned beneath Henry back at the Kenway house. Her hands may be free, but she feels no less helpless for it. Henry has power over her. He has complete control over her pulse, her breath, her pleasure. And she never wants it back.

Henry tilts down to kiss her again, and Evie kisses back with everything she has—trust and surrender. Then Henry begins to move.

Slow, shallow thrusts work up to long and deep ones, and Evie's writhing on the mattress, digging her nails into Henry's back as he pushes in and in and in. She glances at the place where their bodies are joined and it dazes her to watch him plunge into her, slick and heavy. She rocks up to meet his hips and the _noise_ Henry makes as she does it sparks something in her, has her heating up again.

Henry mouths at her collarbone, her neck—hot breath feathering over her skin. He levers himself higher on the bed, and Evie almost bends in two in order to go with him. It strains her abdomen and back but the angle—oh, it's sublime, Henry's weight bearing down and grinding against her clit with each snap of his hips.

They're sweating, panting. Henry's slamming into her, pushing her up the bed. The sounds of their thighs slapping together, the feel of Evie's breasts bouncing with the punishing rhythm Henry's set—God, it's _obscene,_ it's filthy, and she doesn't care. She doesn't care. She only wants more, faster, now.

One hand knotted in the bedspread, Evie sneaks her other hand between their rocking bodies to press on her clit, so it catches on Henry's length as he moves in and out. She's gasping, sobbing out every breath as static gathers and flares in her belly. It builds up and up then shatters, splintering through her, making her cry out, making her roll her eyes back.

Above her, Henry's gasping, sweat shining at his brow. His hips stutter as he pounds into her, hard but uneven. Then he's tumbling after her with a hitching moan, thrusting through his climax and filling her up.

Arms shaking, Henry tips to the side and off her. Evie feels strange and empty for just a moment until he gathers her close, breathing shock and praise into her hair.

—

Evie Frye is a sound sleeper. He knew she would be—even as an Assassin, she's always had a family to watch over her, a home to retire to at night. Henry once had those things too, along with the good night's sleep that came with them. That was before his Brothers hurled him into a prison, before Ethan Frye "saved" him from execution then left him to a life of homelessness. Henry spent years shivering on the hard floor of the Thames Tunnel, the only guardian standing between the people like him—the wretched, the derelict, the homeless—and the thieves and fugitives who dwelled farther down in the dark.

Henry fastens the buttons on his shirt and looks down at Evie in the bed, hair coming out of her braid, arms curled under her pillow. He supposes he could kill her now. He thought the hanging barrels he sent tumbling down at her earlier tonight might have done the job, but in retrospect he's glad they didn't. He likes the idea of her waking up alone—Henry missing, the key missing—and realizing she's been used like a pawn.

Henry shrugs on his coat, and draws out the plans he'd lifted earlier while the guards were busy dealing with Evie. The entrance to the vault is sealed with stone, tucked away in a wooded area in the palace gardens. But that shouldn't be a problem. He checks that he still has the key, slipped effortlessly from Evie's neck while he undressed her. With another passive glance back at her sleeping form, he leaves to secure a carriage and some dynamite.

Henry thought killing Ethan would serve his thirst for revenge. The look on his mentor's face when he realized his plea for Henry to return to the Assassins had failed, the knowledge that Ethan's body was rotting in an unmarked grave with others who tried to interfere in Templar business…that should have been enough. But he wants Evie to know she'd been bested. He wants all of the Brotherhood—and the Order, what's left of it once he eliminates Starrick—to know he's won.

But first, to business.

Getting onto the palace grounds is pitifully simple, easier than a waltz. The Queen's Guard is spread thin in the dark hours before dawn. Henry strides through the gardens, not bothering to hide, effortlessly silencing the few guards standing between him and the vault with his kukri.

He sets the charges, a final gift pinched from one of Starrick's factories, and greedily watches them blow. They send stone and dust high into the air and tumbling noisily down into the vault. Henry follows, sliding on his heels, a gloved hand braced behind him. The tomb is dark, but Henry makes his way by the moonlight peeking in through the cracked rock above. The passage opens up to a colossal underground amphitheater, and the casket containing the Shroud glows dully at the other end.

Henry strides across the room, footsteps echoing off the stone. He tears the key from the necklace and throws the beaded chain to the floor. Once he reaches the casket, he slots the key into its hollow inlay. The casket flares, gold and bright, and slides open.

Henry can hear the far-off scuffle of guards at the vault entrance, calling to each other as they make their way down the steep slope. He lifts the Shroud—its strange, heavy fabric whispers over his fingers—and lays it over his shoulders. Hands braced on the casket, he pauses, feeling the Shroud's power drill through him and steady him.

Henry's mistakes as a young man made others think he's soft. He's learned to twist it to his advantage—playing helpless to be written off, letting Templars tackle him at the Tower of London so that Evie Frye steps in to 'rescue' him. But Henry's done trading on ignorance and underestimation. He's ready to be feared.

The first guards make it to the amphitheater, shouting threats at the shadow standing before the casket. Henry glances at them over his shoulder, then he readies his blade.


End file.
